


Antala Kwinga (Bow Giving)

by erobey



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobey/pseuds/erobey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story set in the Feud universe featuring young Legolas. Maltahondo appears as a loyal guardian as we share a glimpse into Legolas' world at an important milestone in a young Wood Elf's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antala Kwinga (Bow Giving)

# Antala Kwinga

He did not like the room at all and with strong distaste peered in through the heavy draperies blocking the opening. It was an inner chamber, far from the trees and the wind and the laughing river. In here, his naneth's private refectory, the air had a stale flavour of dried flowers and herbs and whatever was being served for the current meal. Over all lingered the heavy aroma of her perfume, a spicy, musty scent more like incense than the usual blossomy smell other ladies wore sometimes. He did not mind that so much as he did the suffocating isolation from his beloved woods, a jumpy feeling in his stomach that if this doorway was somehow sealed, he could not get out. He stared up at the low ceiling of the small chamber with disfavour and glanced at his mother seated at her fancy table. She had not noticed his presence yet.

"Maur Aur, Nana," (Fair Morning, Mama) he announced in perfunctory tones and continued the conversation he had begun the night before at the evening repast. "It is this echuil, Nana, when ari a dolmë (day and night) are equal in length," Legolas announced as he sat down to break fast with his mother as was his habit, as she expected.

Maltahondo was already there and smiled in greeting, watched Legolas as he eyed Ningloriel carefully to learn what her mood might be today. She had not gone to check on the child last night to make sure he did not sneak off to his treetop hideaway in an ancient oak he had named 'the Sentinel', but that signified nothing. Sometimes, days passed and she saw her only son never save at the morning meal, as now. That was only when she was present in Greenwood, which times were growing shorter while the intervals between them lengthened. The guardsman noted the tight line of her jaw, the way she sat in rigid posture, and sighed inwardly. Legolas should have checked first and spoken later.

"What about this spring, child?" Ningloriel answered with unhidden irritation. "Maltahondo, what is he talking about?" She hoped to divert whatever the boy needed to his guardian; that was his purpose, after all.

"Antala Kwinga!" (Bow-Giving) her son cried indignantly. How could she have forgotten? All of Greenwood was gearing up for the traditional ceremony. "I am twenty-five this year," he added, not sure that she had not forgotten that, too.

"Yes, of course you are, Mir-en-Inden (Jewel of my Heart)," she cooed sweetly, leaning close enough to stroke his golden hair, sending her servant a pointed look as she resumed her perusal of a long scroll.

"Aye, this is the year, Legolas," said Maltahondo with bright enthusiasm. "You will receive your first hunting bow. Hurry and finish your meal so that we may spend some time studying this ancient rite."

"But I want to spend time practising," argued Legolas. "Everyone knows the history of the ceremony and we will all have to listen to Iarwain retell it when the day dawns."

"Do not be impertinent," admonished Ningloriel sharply. "You are not to call the Elders by name, for you are but an elfling. I will not have it said my son exhibits such blatant disrespect. Go with Maltahondo and follow his teaching; I will quiz you later to see what you learn."

"Nana, I am not"

"Come, Legolas; we will see if your snare has caught a rabbit and then you will practise," Maltahondo interrupted the child, eager to spare him the harsh reprimand Ningloriel would surely give for such impudence, generally a stinging slap across the cheek. "Please excuse us, Berethen (my Queen)." He rose and quickly took his young charge by the arm to get him out of range, mindful of her narrowed eyes and compressed lips. She gave a brief, cool nod of dismissal and a dark, warning glare to her son and returned to her reading.

Legolas gave a last look over his shoulder; she was not watching him, already engrossed in the letter from some friend faraway in Lorien. He felt a sudden urge to run back and snatch it from her, rip it up and stamp on the fragments, shout at her to listen to him. He did none of these things for the tension in his body inspired his guardian to give his arm a consoling squeeze. He looked up, but Malthen was gazing straight ahead, his serious and official, dutifully vigilant expression adorning his features. That was fine, Legolas decided; he did not want to be scolded for something he felt but did not express. It was always like that now; things his heart endured that could never be revealed, not even to Malthen.

In silence the pair walked through the passageways of the underground fortress, Legolas shaking off his guardian's hold as soon as they exited his mother's suite. He was angry, furious, and stalked ahead swiftly, eager to get out from beneath the weight of the stone and feel the life of the green things. Maltahondo let himself smile just a little, careful not to let the child see, for Legolas would be offended to know his high wroth was a source of amusement. The guardsman could not help it; the boy reminded him much of Ningloriel when she was this age: adamant, obstinate, and strong-willed.

"I am not disrespectful," seethed Legolas. "How can she say that? I always bow and address the Elders with due courtesy whenever I must abide their presence."

"Do not be dismayed; she knows you are well-behaved in public. It is a mother's right to scold, Laiquassë"

"Even if her child has done nothing to merit scolding?" he objected, tone and expression equally exasperated.

"Especially then, for she feels the need to pre-empt any possibility of poor behaviour. This is her duty and she takes it quite seriously." Maltahondo smiled in genuine regard at his ward now, hoping his jesting explanation would lift the child's spirits. "My naneth was the same; in fact, she still is."

"Really?" The child peered at him wide-eyed. "But you are full grown; old enough to have a family and elflings of your own." That gave him pause, for he had not really considered this before. "Why do you not, Malthen?"

"Ah, my position is the cause. I do not want to pass on this duty to future generations." Maltahondo replied quickly for he could not tell the child his heart had been claimed by Ningloriel, who would not have him. Or rather, she would have him when she pleased, as she pleased, giving nothing in return.

Legolas stopped and turned baleful eyes on the tall elf, confused by the bitter expression gathered around his guardian's pinched mouth. "You do not like being the Queen's guardian?" he asked, not able to voice the real query.

"It is not that," Maltahondo reassured, forcing a smile. "I am happy to be your guardian and proud to be the Queen's most trusted servant. Yet the choice was not mine; it is a penalty ordained by Law. I am bound by the blood debt of my ancestors and so it would be for any children born of me. I do not want that."

"I do not understand how this debt can be yours if you did not do the deed for which it was imposed," declared the child. "Are you truly Noldorin, the descendant of kin-slayers? Perhaps it is a mistake; you look like any other Wood Elf to me. I thought the Noldor were all fierce and dark."

"Not all are so and yes, I am descended from an elf involved in the betrayal of Dior's twin sons. My ancestor wed a sylvan wife and you know this means all offspring are therefore sylvan, too. Since then, many generations have passed and all my ancestors have wedded sylvans so that now I am hardly Noldorin by blood. But a blood debt can only be removed by blood spent, either pouring it out to appease the killings or dedicated to serving the descendants of the ones who were killed. You and your mother are those descendants. You know all this, Laiquassë, and it cannot be changed by your wishes or mine. It is the way of things," Maltahondo shook his head, "and need not concern you. Now, let us go see what your snares have trapped."

"When I am grown, I will petition Iarwain to lift this curse from you," answered the child as he trotted ahead, "for it is wholly unjust. You would be a wonderful Ada."

Maltahondo's brows rose as he watched the boy loping away, not surprised by the statement so much as the vehemence with which it was made. He had no doubt the elfling meant it and would do exactly as he said. He followed, catching up just as they reached the open arches of the main entrance.

"Now then, let us not forget the promise I made to your naneth. Recite for me what you know of this legacy from the elder days," he said. Again the child stopped and eyed him, this time with irritation.

"Why? You did not actually promise anything and you know I remember it. Nana will never ask me about it."

"She might."

"Nay, she will not even bother to verify where I am tonight. I think I will not come in at all."

"Yes, you will or I will be the one taken to task for it," reminded Maltahondo. "For one so concerned with justice, you are quick to cast me in incriminating circumstances, for you know she will blame me. Is that what you want?"

"Nay! I did not mean that, Malthen, truly!" exclaimed the elfling, distraught to have given this thought to his beloved guardian. "I will do as you say. Listen, then!

"Upon the vernal equinox of an elfling's twenty-fifth year, the ancient and revered tradition of Antala Kwinga (Bow-giving) takes place," he began his recitation by rote, having memorised the lengthy passage form the book of Law and Custom. "Naturally, a child might have any number of toy bows and blunt arrows to play with, but this is the first genuine, functioning, lethal weapon a sylvan will ever use. This introduction to the art of killing is a much anticipated milestone in an elf's life and, while Coll o Gweth is still many years away, this ceremony marks the end of innocence in its own manner." He stopped and his brow wrinkled up. "What does it mean, 'the end of innocence'?"

"The words address the necessary acquisition of knowledge which invariably diminishes the sense of wonder and joy a person feels prior to having that knowledge."

"I do not understand," complained Legolas. "Why should understanding something make me less able to be happy about it?"

"Right now you are eager to learn to use the bow, are you not?"

"Yes, I practise every day."

"What do you enjoy about it?"

"I do not know," Legolas shrugged, a light sweep of colour across his cheeks revealing the lie in his words. "I suppose I like the idea of doing something well, something a Wood Elf is supposed to do well."

"You want your mother to be proud of you and the King to see you as more than a burden to be endured," Maltahondo spoke the words his charge could not say, watched the child's eyes widen as a small spark of wary hope ignited there. "There is nothing wrong with such desires, yet they blind you to the true purpose of this ceremony. After this day, your practise must lead from inanimate targets to hunting game. You will have to take life, Legolas, and doing this will forever change how you view archery. It is not just a way to impress your Nana; it is a vital and necessary skill upon which your life may one day depend."

"That is loss of innocence?"

"It is."

Silence filled the space between them as Legolas considered this information.

"I think I see," he sighed, "but right now I want most for Nana to be proud." It was a relief after all to hear his hidden thoughts aloud and have someone to talk to about it. "And I want you to be proud of me, too. You will be, I promise it. I will shoot the farthest, the fastest, and hit the target dead center."

"So you announce at every practise session," Maltahondo remarked. Indeed, Legolas voiced the words with the conviction of one who is creating his future and defining his fate as he speaks. Worried for what might happen if these dreams failed to realise, he sought to allay the pressure the elfling had shouldered. "It is not necessary to be the best, Legolas; this is not a test but a celebration."

"It _is_ necessary." Legolas sent his guardian a swift glance, dark fire in those wide blue depths. "I must show Nana that I can become better than any of her guards, better even than you."

"Nay, she does not care about warrior skills, I assure you. She is your naneth and loves you dearly; there is nothing you need do to ensure that devotion. In fact, I think it will be hard for her to face this day and realise you are growing up."

"I do not care; I will show her. She will not be able to leave me behind if I am a skilled archer. I will become the best archer in Greenwood and she will be pleased to have me in her escort to Lothlorien then."

"Ai, Laiquassë," breathed the guardian, dumbfounded to know this secret motive.

Often he had wondered over the degree of diligence and persistence Legolas poured into his daily practise, much greater effort and enthusiasm than that expended in other endeavours of learning, but this was not the cause he would have assigned to it. And yet, had he given more thought to his young charge, he might well have surmised something of the sort. He shook his head, frowning, for he knew Ningloriel had no wish for her son to join her in Lothlorien. It was to escape her responsibility as a mother that she went, as much as it was her desire to escape the vile temper of her husband.

"You think I cannot do it?" demanded the child, uncertainty limning the syllables.

"Ai! Nay, that is not why I was scowling so," the guardsman stumbled through this apologetic answer. "I believe you will become a great archer, Laiquassë, especially if you continue to practise so fervently. It is just that I doubt your naneth will want you exposed to the dangers of the journey, no matter how gifted you are. It is the way of mothers; they cannot help but worry. You do not wish to give your Nana more to worry over, do you?"

"No, I do not," he said in sullen displeasure, eyes clearly betraying that he knew Maltahondo was holding something back and he knew what it was. She just did not want him with her; she left home to get away from him because he was a nuisance and a bother. Legolas could not say those hurtful thoughts out loud for that would giver them life, make them real.

Maltahondo saw them anyway and was filled with pity he could not hide. Understanding passed between them in silence and again the child flushed crimson, this time in shame and anger, as he turned and raced across the courtyard and into the gardens.

The guardsman heaved a heavy sigh on the elfling's behalf, contemplating how he might salvage the little prince's shaken ego. The ritual was the perfect venue to build him up and permit him the opportunity to show all the citizens that he was peerless among not only his age-mates but those at more advanced stages of training. Legolas had not yet received any real arrows, but he had been bending a true bow made to his small dimensions for many months. He was more prepared for Antala Kwinga than anyone since the rite's inception.

Established on the shores of Cuiviénen, the first Antala Kwinga was said to have been held in commemoration of Oromë's gift of a finely crafted hunting bow to Iarwain, who was then but a young elf and had a mother-name which he never used after that day, renaming himself Oromëndil. The Vala had been impressed by the youth's keen ability to keep up with him on the hunt, his eagerness to copy everything the Huntsman did, and his fortitude in helping to dispatch the deer, sinking his crude knife into the animals beating heart to end its pain and fear. It had all been a test, of course, for the mighty Lord could easily shoot an arrow through a hart's hide and kill it instantly.

Oromë shared his knowledge and skill in the use and making of the weapon with any who wished to learn, and the sylvan people were especially eager. They gained mastery of the art quickly and began to see the advantages the bow gave them in defending and feeding their people. The other tribes likewise studied the craft and elves were no longer so fearful of the strange and cunning creatures that pursued them through the starlit plains. In those early years of the ritual, the ancients said, all the people participated, Vanyarin, Noldorin, and Telerin alike, and Oromë himself came to present a child's first bow.

Even so, too many of the First-born fell to the creatures of Shadow, and the Great Journey commenced. At the feet of Hithaeglir the sylvans abandoned it, unwilling to leave the majesty of the great forest beside the long river for the unknown danger and strife of scaling the forbidding, mist-shrouded mountains. They adapted quickly to life beneath the trees and proudly named themselves Tawarwaith: Wood Elves. The importance of mastering the bow increased for their protector was gone and the forest was beset by many dire threats.

Over the Ages the rite evolved, the bow presented with much pomp and ceremony by none other than Iarwain himself, though the weapon was crafted by either one of the parents or another adult relative if the elfling was orphaned. The Eldest Elder always made a stirring narration of his Antala Kwinga to go along with it. The ancient one's tale duly impressed the wide-eyed youngsters, each clutching a brand new weapon close against his or her heart. After this, it was the duty of the child's Adar, if male, or Naneth, if female, to present the first arrow and show the elfling how to nock, draw, and release it.

There was no small amount of pride tied up in this and it was safe to say every elfling in Greenwood was coached for at least a full year prior to Antala Kwinga, so to uphold the family honour. No one cared if the arrow sped straight up into the sky or ploughed deep into the ground as long as it flew at least a metre. Having achieved this milestone, the weapon was taken up by the Naneth and put away, the rest of the day being devoted to fun, games, feasting, and music. Officially, no one took any notice of who had done the best, but that was really all the adults talked about for the rest of the celebration and the elflings certainly knew it.

The pertinent details of Legolas' Antala Kwinga, that is who would commission a new bow for him, give him his first real arrow, and watch as he drew and fired it, seemed to be forgotten by everyone, except for Maltahondo and Legolas himself. It would not be proper for the lowly bond-servant to make the presentation of the arrow, no matter how strongly he felt about the child. Ningloriel would never do so, for this would be tantamount to admitting her son had no father in Greenwood, which was the chief cause of all the arguments between the King and his Queen. Thranduil was surely not interested, for he detested the very idea of the child he would be expected to coach more than he loathed Orcs. For Orcs were nothing to him but something to kill, while the child should be the pride of his heart, not, as he believed, the bastard spawn of the Lord of Imladris.

Thus, no one ever mentioned this ritual to Legolas directly. He heard about it through other children in the city when he went out of the stronghold, or overheard various guards boasting to one another about their children's acumen with the bow and how well they would do. He knew about it and must have realised at once where he was caught fast, unable to ask for anyone else to help because doing so meant admitting to the ugly things his mother and the King fought about.

_Not that their contention is unknown to all the forest and far beyond our borders._

Maltahondo sighed softly. It was how he handled this situation that first gave him a glimpse of the tremendous strength in the lithe young elfling who had come under his guardianship. By this age he certainly knew the rumours and could not help but overhear the arguments between his parents. He knew what Thranduil thought. He was marked, his presence an embarrassment, his life a result of treachery. Legolas showed no surprise when the guardsman undertook his training and was surely glad not to have to endure the open scorn of Talagan, the Sindarin Master-at-Arms who would have shouldered the job otherwise. Yet, the question loomed in dire menace over the whole of his preparatory year: who would present Legolas' with his first arrow?

The days of that year had fled away behind them and Legolas practised as though his life depended on the outcome, finally letting slip the purpose of his intense concentration. This made the rubrics of the ritual far more poignant in Malthen's view, and he hoped to make the Queen aware of this secret wish harboured in her child's heart. Even so, it was no easy thing to do, pointing out to Ningloriel that her son understood why she fled from Greenwood so often. She held in her mind an image of herself as a perfect and doting mother. The guardian procrastinated until at last it could not be avoided, though he never got the chance to speak of Legolas' desire for more of his naneth's time.

With only a week remaining before the ceremony, Maltahondo mentioned the dilemma over the arrow to Ningloriel, a grave mistake as it turned out. She immediately confronted her husband, demanding he fulfil this traditional duty to her son. Of course, he refused and a loud argument ensued, the two descended into the usual back and forth of progressively more vile and putrid slurs and insults. Neither would back down and there it ended without any decision being made regarding Legolas. Mentor and ward met at the morning meal the next day, a dismal and silent affair as Ningloriel remained in her boudoir.

"It was not my intent to make things worse," Maltahondo said with genuine remorse.

"No matter, I was going to ask her myself anyway. The same would have happened so it is not your fault," Legolas supplied this morose reply, listlessly dragging his spoon through the cooling porridge before him. He pushed the bowl aside with a scowl and sat straight, meeting his guardian's eyes with defiant determination. "All will be well," the child promised, "just watch and see. My bow and my first arrow will be there if Oromë himself has to bring them from Aman."

Maltahondo was impressed with his ward's resilience and smiled, clapping a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Now, that would surely be a sight!" he exclaimed. "I wonder if he will remember Iarwain when he comes?"

"Maybe so and then we will learn the old elf's real name," crowed Legolas, snickering. "All these aeons of time, calling himself Oromëndil, and I would wager the Vala has no idea who he is."

"Oh, this is an example of a respectful attitude?" Maltahondo chastened, but he was grinning hugely.

"I only claimed to be polite and respectful in the Elder's presence," reminded Legolas, "so no falsehood was spoken."

The auspicious day dawned and all the elflings of five and twenty years were escorted by Talagan to a fair, green clearing ringed with smiling onlookers and decorated with coloured streamers and buntings. There they eyed one another with interested speculation, surrounded by proud and doting family members, and gradually collected in the centre of the meadow to exchange greetings with their peers. Legolas was noticeably shunned and this neither surprised nor disturbed him, though Maltahondo had worried over it prior to the moment. Now that it had arrived, he realised his young ward had no reason to expect anything different, for nearly everyone in his life treated him with the same wary aversion. To his own mother he was but a duty, a sacrifice made on her peoples' behalf for which she never received her due. To the staff he was a tiresome and exasperating burden. To Thranduil he was a constant reminder of his wife's infidelity.

As for Maltahondo's view, Legolas was the child he should have had with Ningloriel.

Iarwain approached and the bows were distributed. Legolas' bow was nothing special, being the same practise weapon Maltahondo had commissioned for him from the boyar for Greenwood's guards. His was the only one that looked worn, as though it had already seen much duty in service to the Greenwood, and many noted the humble weapon. A few half-stifled laughs escaped the other children, for most young elves had bows designed by their parents or kinfolk, carved elaborately and clearly for show, for this one day only.

Legolas did not care about them. He accepted his weapon with due solemnity and unrestrained happiness, sending his mentor a quick grin of gratitude from within which peeked the unspoken need for reassurance. Maltahondo responded with his most encouraging nod, pleased that it was he the child looked to on this day, and stood extra tall, believing utterly that Legolas' relentless persistence was about to bear fruit.

One by one the elflings stood forward, the order determined by conception day. Each adar or naneth gave forth the arrow and the necessary instruction on how to fire it. Applause and joyous praise met each child's best effort, whether the shot was wild and ungoverned or clean and indicative of careful training. Legolas was last, youngest born of his generation.

For a breathless moment he waited, still and stiff, just to see if his Nana would come forward, knowing that she would not. Then he lifted his chin resolutely and strode away toward the border of the clearing and everyone thought he meant to leave rather than face his shame, but it was not so. To a tall pine he walked and knelt beside it for a second, arising with an arrow in his fist. A real arrow, a warrior's arrow, an arrow obviously taken from the weapons storage room. Several startled gasps rose up but all remained still and watched in silent wonder at what he would do next.

Back to the centre he marched, eyes seeking and finding his guardian's upon him. Again that gleam of love shone forth for an instant and then he took his stance, nocked his arrow, drew the bow back and back and impossibly back more, then paused and held to steady his quaking arm before he loosed the long bolt. Straight and true it flew to the target and bit deep into the heart of the soft wood and leather circle, issuing a loud and satisfying thud. It was not the only arrow to hit the target, but it was certainly the only one so close to the centre.

"Well done, Hîr neth!" Maltahondo exclaimed into the dense silence, wondering at the presence of mind that had caused Legolas to supply the arrow himself, but it was to his mother that Legolas looked in this moment of victory. Ningloriel spared her child a fleeting smile before turning her smug, contemptuous gaze upon her husband, for the King was there, too, as custom demanded.

"Excellent, Mir-en-Inden (Jewel of my Heart), just as expected of Greenwood's heir. Now bring Nana the bow. It makes me ill to see you holding that weapon with such familiarity," Ningloriel said and beckoned her crestfallen son to her side, never noticing how hard it was for him to give up this one proof of his worth.

The party lasted the entire day with much feasting and merry making, laughter and song, but Legolas did not stay long. With unfeigned joy he revelled in his Nana's boasting as she paraded him from group to group, making certain everyone addressed him as Ernil Neth (Young Prince), his bow held tight against her heart as she spoke of her sorrow to see this day arrive at last. As soon as she was satisfied that her people's respect and admiration remained firm, that Thranduil had also taken note of this, then she withdrew with a cadre of her lady friends, handing the bow off to Maltahondo. Legolas at once reclaimed it and vanished. He did not return to the stronghold that night and only Malthen knew it.

The next day, he did not appear for the morning meal, nor come when he heard his Nana call him, nor arrive at the library for his lessons with the latest tutor. Malthen found him in his usual spot, practising archery in the clearing ringed by twelve majestic beeches, firing real arrows deep into the target's inner rings. They shared a glance that chilled the guardian, for within the clear blue eyes the truth shone forth: he would make her say it. He would make her tell him in her own voice that she did not want him. Until then, he would make ready, becoming the best among Greenwood's warriors so that there would be no denying her real meaning. Until then, it was a truth he could pretend not to know, and Malthen bowed his head, hoping against all reason that the truth revealed on that day would be worth the love being poured into the weapon.

  


### The End


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